


Truth or Dare

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bisexual Peter, Bleeding, Blow Job, Bondage, Claiming, Demon!Wade, Deprived Orgasm, First Kiss, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pain, Peter Is Seventeen/Eighteen, Porn with some plot, Sex, Wade Is A Bloody Mary Style Demon, Wax Play, Whipping, smut glorious smut, student!peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:23:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: "It seemed to be the unspoken rules of high school that every Christmas, Halloween or slumber party had to dissolve into Truth or Dare eventually."At a high school Halloween party, Peter is dared to do the 'Deadpool Challenge' - a ritual that supposedly summons a burned demon to the mortal world. Peter is somewhat sceptical, but his opinion changes when said phantom appears in front of him and asks for much, MUCH more than what he expected. . .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS HALLOWEEN! THIS IS HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN!
> 
> A little spooky sexy fun.

Peter’s finger lingered for just a second too long over the light switch before plunging the cold bathroom into darkness. Outside, he heard Flash jeering about how chicken he was, how there was no way he’d have the guts to go through with the dare.

It seemed to be the unspoken rules of high school that every Christmas, Halloween or slumber party had to dissolve into Truth or Dare eventually. He didn’t mind so much, so long as jerks like Flash weren’t there to make sure he did something stupid in front of MJ or Johnny Storm. How could his Peter Parker luck be _so_ bad as to land him in this scenario – forced to do dumb dares in the company of _both_ people he was crushing on. He would never have admitted to either of them, and especially not to Flash, that the idea of this dare was actually making him nervous. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, but there was something about the world of spirits and ghosts that made him a little apprehensive. Like, he didn’t _think_ he believed in them, but he’d always steered clear of these sorts of games – just in case. But Flash was waiting, ear pressed to the door, waiting for him to say the three stupid words in front of the mirror, attempting to summon a demon.

The evil spirit, according to the legend surrounding the game, had once been a kill-for-hire with the nickname of “Deadpool”, when he’d been captured by some mad scientist and burned alive. The scientist and his assistants had watched the flesh melting off his bones, his skin bubbling and bursting like boils as he was consumed by the flames. Now, if anyone holding a lit candle – or, in Peter’s case, a small plastic lighter – said Deadpool’s name three times in front of a mirror, he was supposed to appear and either kill the summoner, or burn them (the legend differed from party to party).

Peter took a deep breath and looked into the eyes of his pale reflection. The tiny flicker of fire in his hand cast shadows across his face, hollowing his cheekbones and making him look rather demonic himself.

“C’mon, Penis Parker!” Flash yelled from outside. Peter was fairly certain he was the only one out there – the others hadn’t seemed too determined on making sure he did the dare. That made it worse, somehow. If MJ and Johnny didn’t care if he did the dare or not, then why was he doing it? Because Flash would make his life a living hell with taunts if he didn’t, that’s why.

“I’m doing it!” Peter sighed in annoyance. “Okay, Deadpool, Deadpool—”

A sudden chill fluttered down his spine like the legs of a spider and he paused. Had he just imagined the shadow of a ghostly face over his shoulder in the mirror? Had it been a trick of the low light that made the flame appear to leap higher for just a moment? He swallowed. Would it really be so bad if he backed out? So, Flash would tease him – what else was new? Two more months and they’d be graduating, anyway, and he’d never have to see Flash’s smug face ever again. He had a ticket to MIT, and Flash’s father had bought his way into Yale. No. There’s was no way he was doing this.

“Yo, Parker, you okay in there?”

His stomach dropped at the sound of Johnny’s voice.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re too scared.”

Now MJ. Crap. Okay, now he _had_ to do it. He knew they were trying to be nice, but had unintentionally sealed his fate. Peter stared into the mirror, brows furrowed in determination. He was doing this.

“Deadpool!” He pushed a little more power into the word than before.

Then the flame went out.

A thousand miles below and several realities away, Wade W. Wilson was stretched out on a slab of barren rock, cheerfully observing a series of tortures being orchestrated by his co-worker, Cable. This time it was a boat of paedophiles and child murderers, and it was delightfully entertaining to watch them being boiled in tar, flayed by poisoned whips, and forced to swallow burning swords. As much as Wade enjoyed performing these tasks himself, it was nice to simply be a bystander for a change. He and Cable had different ways of going about their work. Wade found it fun, often snorting with mirth at the pathetic pleas for mercy that gurgled from his victim’s throats, while Cable was stone-faced and cold, like an army general punishing a disobedient soldier.

“Come on, Cyclops, put your back into it!” he called down to his work partner, who was stripping the flesh from the spine of a school principal who had enjoyed hands-on teaching a little too much. Cable glared at him with his remaining organic eye, the other winking mechanically in the light of the flames. Wade didn’t know who or what Cable had been in his former life, and he couldn’t say he much cared. The guy was good at his job, if a little stiff in attitude, and he put up with Wade’s shenanigans with as much patience as a demon from the Pit of Despair could be expected to.

Wade chuckled and rolled over onto his back, cushioning his gloved hands behind his head and staring into the endless void above.

“Yo ho, yo ho, a demon’s life for me,” he sang to himself, appreciating a sudden screech of agony from the Pit.

He missed the Upperworld, for sure, but it wasn’t so bad down here, either. The judges at the Gates had deemed his soul suitable for the rank of demon, and it had only taken him a thousand years or so to work his way up to a Torturer. Very impressive for a newbie. Of course, that was down here, where time worked differently. He had no idea how much time had passed on Earth – it could have been only twenty years. He only saw the world through mirrors, and it was difficult to tell what century his summoner was in from a bathroom suite.

He was unsure who had first told his story, but wherever they were, he hoped they were having a good time. He didn’t always heed the summons. He heard his name called through the fabric of reality, but it was his decision to answer it. Were he some lesser imp from the upper levels, he might have been bound to his chosen name, unable to ignore or resist the call; but being a Torturer had more than just the benefits of a good time, and he was able to come and go as he pleased. In a way, it was best not to appear before every idiot who wanted the thrill of the supernatural. Not doing it every time was enough to keep them questioning if the trick was real, and in doing so, make them more likely to try it. If it was proven fact that he turned up and attacked anyone who said his name, nobody would do it. But if just a choice few claimed the legend was real, that was enough to spread the seed of doubt, and oh boy, how humans loved to distrust each other. Demons drew a hefty amount of their power from fear, and what fear was more delicious than that of a quivering, innocent mortal?

It had been a while since he’d heard his name spoken, felt the pull in his stomach which requested his presence in the world above, so when he heard it ringing through the darkness to his ears, he decided to have some fun. It was his day off, after all, and he had nothing else planned. He hauled himself to his feet and stripped out of his leather bodysuit, revealing only the ragged black pants he wore underneath. His skin chaffed after a while in the heat, so, unless the situation demanded it, he kept his ruined body out of sight.

He waved merrily to Cable, who sternly ignored him, and opened the invisible door to the World of Worlds. It was something of a misnomer, since it wasn’t a ‘world’ in the way that Earth was, or Narnia. It was more like a vortex of swirling blackness, interrupted by occasional doorways, entrances to other dimensions, other realities. Kind of like _Monsters Inc._, without Billy Crystal or Steve Buscemi. Wade’s path was clear – a piercing purple light shining some distance to his left. From here, could make out nothing of the fool who awaited him, but as he drew closer, he managed to make out some detail. It was a boy in his late teens, with short brown hair and a pale, heart-shaped face.

Soft brown eyes that glimmered in the faint light cast by a lighter, clutched in his fist.

A light star-spray of freckled across his nose.

Sweet pink lips that were slightly parted, both in anticipation and fear.

Wade couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a pretty face on a human. On a human _boy_, no less. He didn’t give a shit about gender – the boy could identify as a forklift truck and he’d still be fuckable – but it was more the fact that this kid was mortal that struck him the most. He would almost describe him as angelic. Wade felt a stirring in his chest, and a stronger one in his groin, and he leaned in closer.

Oh, this one was going to be _fun_. 

Peter stepped back from the mirror and dropped the lighter, his heart thumping wildly. He fell to his knees, narrowly missing the sink, and fumbled on the tiles. Eventually, his fingers closed around the thin plastic bottle, and he clicked the flint.

He could not remember ever uttering such a sound as the scream that tore from his throat at that moment.

The face less than three feet before him was withered and red, dry and cracked as scorched earth, with deep rivers of orange fire running between the canyons of burned flesh. The monster’s eyes were blood red, the agony of a thousand tortured souls drowning in their depths. He could sense the evil radiating off the creature like heat, could feel it drawing on his fear, feeding off him like a vampire. His feet rooted to the floor, his bones stiff and immovable as iron.

He was dead, he knew it. There was no way any person could see such a being and live; not outside of an asylum, anyway. He wanted to turn and run screaming from the room, but he might as well have tried to sink through the floor. The demon that was Deadpool loomed over him, burning eyes locked onto Peter’s. The lighter had fallen from his fingers again, but the demon seemed to radiate its own light, like water shimmering through a filter of blood.

“My, my,” its voice was deep and threatening, smooth and deadly as a tiger in the undergrowth. “What have we here?”

The breath stilled in Peter’s lungs as Deadpool raised one sharp-nailed hand, cradling his chin between the fingers. The skin felt hot and dry, like sand. 

“Aren’t you the most precious little thing?”

A tremor juddered through Peter’s body as the warm breath washed over him, beads of sweat breaking out all over his forehead.

“So, this is usually the part where I burn your eyes out,” the demon purred, lifting Peter’s chin and exposing his throat. “Or would you prefer my name branded across this lovely skin?” Leaning forward, it extended its pointed tongue and licked a stripe of hot saliva up the side of Peter’s neck.

“Please . . .” Peter whispered, his voice barely brave enough to raise itself.

The demon moaned softly, its lips closing on the soft flesh, the tips of its sharp teeth teasing. What was happening? If the monster was threatening to main him, why were its hands trailing down his body to his waist with what he could only describe as tenderness?

Summoning every fibre of his courage, Peter forced his hands between their bodies and pushed as hard as he could. Deadpool stayed perfectly in position, the momentum propelling Peter backwards and almost over the edge of the bathtub.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, unsure why he was apologising to a monster from Hell but thought it best to cover all bases.

Deadpool looked surprised, almost amused, as he stared down at the teen.

“Or,” he said, as though there’d been no interruption, “there’s option C.”

Peter swallowed. “What’s that?”

The demon raised a hand and tapped three times on his own lips. “Polly wants a smacker, baby boy.”

Peter could feel the blood physically draining from his face like an unstoppered water barrel. This didn’t make any sense. The demon was supposed to appear when summoned and burn him – that was the deal – so why was it substituting its MO in place of a _kiss?_ Was it going to bite his tongue out or eject acid down his throat?

“If I . . . if I kiss you,” Peter’s throat felt like sandpaper, “will you go?”

The demon shrugged, a mischievous gleam in its eye. “Unless you beg me to stay.”

Peter placed his hand over his eyes and snorted with almost hysterical laughter.

“What?” Deadpool said, raising what had once been an eyebrow.

“This is my first kiss,” Peter admitted. “My first fucking kiss and it’s with some demonic Hell-spawn.”

“Flatterer,” Deadpool said. “Best make it a memorable one then, huh?”

Without warning, Peter found himself scooped into a pair of strong arms and pressed firmly against the wall. His legs were positioned either side of Deadpool’s waist, the small of his back pinioned against the cool tiles, his wrists gripped between Deadpool’s long, heavily calloused fingers. Peter’s heart was thumping like an army of war-drums, his gaze suddenly captivated by the burning red eyes just below him.

“Open your mouth,” Deadpool murmured, his black tongue dampening the chapped skin of his lips with a quiet _hissss_.

“You’re gonna burn me,” Peter protested weakly. He was very conscious that his butt was positioned right over Deadpool’s crotch.

Deadpool smirked and placed a soft kiss on Peter’s jawline. Surprisingly soft.

“Only a little.”

Peter flinched as the hot lips assaulted his own, the flesh hard and cracked as fired clay. They scratched and scraped at his tender mouth until he felt tears welling up in his eyes. A thin trickle of blood escaped down his chin, lapped up greedily by the seeking tongue. The demon’s kiss tasted of charcoal, making him cough. Peter whimpered and turned his face away.

“There,” Deadpool grinned. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?

“It hurt,” Peter licked at the split on his bottom lip.

“I can fix that,” Deadpool said. “But only for a moment.”

“What d’you me—” but Peter quickly discovered exactly what Deadpool meant. Like a bed of ash blown away by the wind, the blackened, ruined flesh across his face transformed, miraculously, into something that wasn’t just human, but beautifully so. Dark, mahogany-brown eyes and sculpted, handsome features. Below his jawline, the rest of his body remained charred, but above was that of an Adonis.

Peter didn’t protest as Deadpool kissed him again, this time slowly, sensuously, with lips soft as newborn skin. As this new handsome face’s tongue caressed the wounds on his mouth, Peter felt them melt away into nonexistence.

“This pretty face won’t last long, kid,” Deadpool murmured against his lips. “Better make the most of it.”

The passion with which he possessed Peter’s mouth was enough to take the teen’s breath away. It felt so good, so warm, the bitter taste of coal fading into something like a summer bonfire. Deadpool released his wrists, allowing his arms to fall to a natural position around his neck, the harsh skin there scraping against his sleeves. Deadpool’s own hands strayed to rest on Peter’s waist, then further to cup the seat of his pants. He began to thrust upwards against Peter’s crotch, the unmistakable hardness barely concealed inside the thin black fabric, and Peter felt an ember of lust begin to glow in the lowest pit of his stomach.

“What . . . what _are_ you . . .?” he moaned as Deadpool licked and suckled at his neck. He felt the strange creature’s lips smirk against his skin.

“Every demon has a little bit of angel in them, honey,” he said.

A jolt of panic seared through Peter’s brain as Deadpool’s hands fingered deftly at the zipper on his jeans.

“Wait—”

“Come on, baby,” Deadpool kissed him again; fervently, feverishly, “don’t you wanna know what other parts of me are angelic?”

Despite his previous revulsion, Peter _did_ want to know. He couldn’t explain it, but ignoring his thundering heart, he allowed the demon to free the shamefully hard erection from his boxer shorts. He shrieked in surprise as Deadpool hoisted his legs over his shoulders and held him in place, elevated, against the wall.

“Oh, _fuck_!” The back of his head bumped sharply against the tiles as Deadpool took his cock inside his hot mouth. It was so _wet_, like the inside of an overripe peach, and he felt the tip of a rough-skinned finger toying at the entrance to his ass.

“No,” he clawed at the tufts of hair still blessedly present atop Deadpool’s head. “Please.”

Deadpool chuckled, the vibration of his voice humming around Peter’s dick. In place of a response, he took Peter’s balls in his hand and rolled them between his fingers, the speed at which he was sucking him off increasing. Peter had never considered himself particularly well-endowed, and every inch of him was easily enveloped by the demon’s mouth. The sight of his cock being worshipped by such a handsome face – whatever the rest of his body may be – only served to make the pleasure more intense. He could feel it rising deep inside him like a geyser, his knees trembling against Deadpool’s harsh shoulder-blades. It was coming . . . _he_ was . . .

And then it was gone.

Glancing down in agonising dismay, he saw Deadpool’s face slowly returning to its original horror. But it seemed different now; he could still see traces of the man he must have been in life – flecks of brown in those blood-red eyes, the cockiness of that smirk laughing about his cruel lips.

“What . . . no . . .” His mind was seeped in fog.

“Time’s up, baby boy,” Deadpool shrugged, unhooking Peter’s legs and setting his feet on the floor.

“You’re leaving?” Peter didn’t like the desperation in his voice, nor the gleam in Deadpool’s eyes when he heard it.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Peter wanted to grab at him, pull him down for another kiss – he didn’t care how much it hurt, how much he bled. He wanted – _needed_ – that feeling again, needed to feel it all the way through to completion.

Smoke was beginning to gather around Deadpool’s feet, thick and black as tar.

“Wait!” he begged. “Deadpool, Deadpool, Deadpool!”

Deadpool shrugged. “Sorry, baby cakes, one sample per customer. Though . . .” lifting Peter’s wrist to his lips, he dragged his rough tongue across the skin, leaving a trail of what Peter hoped wasn’t blood in its wake. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Figure that out and we might both get lucky.”

Then before Peter could so much as open his mouth, he was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Peter wasn’t sure which part of the experience had been more disconcerting – the fact that Hell and its demonic inhabitants existed, or that he’d lost a portion of his virginity to one of them. He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It seemed strange that just a couple of hours ago, he’d been just like them – blissfully ignorant of any part of that world that had been showcased to him in the bathroom.

When he’d staggered out, feeling rung out as a used tube of toothpaste but nowhere near as satisfyingly empty, he’d been met with nothing but Flash’s jeers.

“Too chicken after all, eh, Parker?” 

It seemed that, to the other students, no time had passed since Deadpool had stepped through the mirror; like some screwed-up Narnia deal. The others had soon grown bored of the whole thing (or, in the case of MJ, Johnny and Ned, pretended to for Peter’s sake), and they’d settled down to watch classic horror movies until people started breaking off towards the designated sleeping quarters (Flash’s parents’ house had _five_ extra bedrooms). As one of the last to go to sleep, Peter was making do with a spare section of shag-pile carpet on the floor of the den, listening to Ned’s gentle snores from the couch. Johnny, MJ and Betty had all managed to secure proper beds, but Peter didn’t think he could have slept on even the most expensive mattress.

He kept running through Deadpool’s words in his head: “A rose by any other name . . .” Shakespeare, clearly, but why? Was he insinuating that there was another name Peter could summon him by? The urban legend had never specified any other name apart from the obvious moniker that the demon had been given. Then again, the story must have come from somewhere, and if ‘Deadpool’ had once been an assassin, it stood to reason that he would have had a normal name at _some_ point. Right?

Peter pulled out his phone and looked up ‘Deadpool urban legend’. There were more than six million results, most of which simply told a rehashed version of the demon’s fictional history, or pointed towards a bad horror movie made in the early 2000s. Peter tried to ignore the little voice in his head that thought the real-life (or -death) Deadpool was far better looking than the grizzled D-list actor chosen to play him, even with the burned flesh.

The image of what Deadpool really looked like and the handsome face he had transformed into seemed to have merged in Peter’s mind. He found his stomach tightening with excitement at the thought of that rough, charcoal skin; the burning, blood-red eyes. Any lingering trace of fear seemed to have been completely overshadowed by his desire to feel Deadpool’s tongue on him again.

He was about to give up for the night and try to sleep, when a particular result caught his attention. It was from a low-quality website (the layout might have _once_ been popular, when Myspace was top of every student’s favourites list), with links diverting to articles on various urban myths, including Deadpool’s. The website was called wadelives.com, and the writer of the pages prefaced the subheadings with a claim that he had once managed to successfully summon Deadpool, with a few slightly blurred photos as proof. They all showed various points on the guy’s arms, where dark red blisters and leathery burns had been imprinted upon his skin. The description he gave of Wade’s appearance made Peter sit up – it was correct to the last detail.

Peter tapped the link leading to the facts and stories surrounding the Deadpool myth. Most weren’t new to him, but a couple jumped out; like how Deadpool had been part of a scientific experiment to fix some kind of illness or gene deficiency when he was murdered.

And that his name had once been Wade Wilson.

His heart clamouring in his chest, Peter scrambled to his feet, trying not to wake Ned as he tiptoed to the door. It was three-thirty AM, and thankfully the bathroom was unoccupied. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply, but he brought along the lighter, just in case. Making sure to lock the door, Peter turned to the mirror in the pitch blackness. He must be stark mad to wish this on himself again, but he knew he couldn’t leave now. Lifting the lighter in front of his face, he thumbed the tiny flame into life and stared at his haunted reflection. If this didn’t work, he wasn’t sure there was much else he could do, but he had to try.

Taking a deep breath, he locked eyes with the scared, gleaming ones staring back at him, and began to whisper:

“Wade Wilson. Wade Wilson.”

The air around him seemed to grow icy cold, the hairs standing up on the backs of his arms, and he knew it must be right.

“Wade Wilson.”

He was prepared for the ghoulish face that appeared in the mirror just behind him, but the hard, strong arms that snaked around his middle took him by surprise.

“Clever, clever,” Deadpool purred in his ear, and every nerve in Peter’s body came alive. “I knew you could do it.”

Peter turned in the demon’s arms and placed his hands on Deadpool’s chest, keeping a foot or so distance between them. Deadpool’s face was just as horrifying, just as deformed, but it didn’t disgust or frighten him as much as it had before. It might still have, were the trembling anticipation not dulling his sense of reason.

“So,” Deadpool pushed a stray hair away from Peter’s forehead and Peter hummed at the jagged roughness of his skin. “Here I am, baby boy.”

Peter squeaked, his plan seeming feebler the longer it scampered around his brain. Deadpool was so much taller than he remembered.

“Where’d you find it?” Deadpool asked.

“Hm?”

“My name.”

“Oh. Um . . . internet.”

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t imagining you sitting in a library on a microfilm reader.”

A shiver ran through Peter’s entire body as Deadpool ran the tip of his finger down his jawline, tilting his chin upwards.

“Yeah . . . uh . . . haha . . . it was a website. It was, um, wadelives.com?”

“Carlos!” Deadpool nodded. “That crazy little bastard! That was the last haunting I did. Kid obviously did his homework.”

Peter swallowed, his throat feeling like sandpaper. “Did you . . . did you guys . . .?”

“Fuck? Nah. Too young.”

“But . . . the pictures. You burned him.”

“Well, yeah, that’s kinda the deal. Don’t worry, he loved it. Just like you loved our little game earlier. I’m guessing that’s why you called me back? Ready for round two?”

Peter didn’t want to say it aloud – it was just too strange to admit he was trying to wheedle sex out of a demon. Deadpool smirked and pushed Peter backwards, crowding him against the wood of the door. He leaned down to lick a thin, hot stripe across Peter’s lower lip.

“Wait, wait!” Peter slammed his palms against Deadpool’s chest. It was at this moment that he realised the demon was completely naked. His stomach lurched as he registered the eight-inch cock suspended between Deadpool’s muscular thighs and started to quickly rethink his original plan.

“You prefer the pretty face?” Deadpool said, a look that could almost be described as disappointed swimming in his ruby eyes. “Guess I should’ve expected that. Well, I can’t hold it for long, baby boy.”

“No,” Peter reached up, battling through the last dregs of fear and touching Deadpool’s cheek. “It’s not that . . . it’s just . . . it’ll hurt.”

Deadpool’s face softened. He wrapped his fingers around Peter’s wrist. “You know, the devil in me kinda wants to see you squirming around in pain.”

Peter gulped.

“But, luckily for you,” he continued. “I don’t like to break my toys first time I play with ‘em.”

He closed his eyes and Peter watched, spellbound, as his skin began to change; not into the handsome human man from before, but something completely different. The cracked charcoal flesh became smooth as polished obsidian, thin, blood-red rivers mapped across its surface like veins. Without the crumbling ash clinging to his face, Peter could see the ghost of that handsome face more clearly – those sculpted cheekbones, the hero’s jawline.

“Better?” Deadpool’s eyes burned like glowing coals.

Peter couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He simply closed his eyes as Deadpool’s lips pressed against his own. He opened his mouth and let himself be invaded by Deadpool’s tongue. He tasted different; hot and metallic, like fresh blood, and Peter wished he could call it a bad taste. Maybe it was Deadpool’s power, causing him to crave anything the demon offered. Whatever it was, he wanted – _needed_ – more. He wrapped his arms around Deadpool’s neck, deepening the kiss; his feet left the floor, ass supported by two strong hands, and he locked his ankles at the base of Deadpool’s spine. He felt that incredible cock against the seat of his pyjama pants again, smooth and hard as glass. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of how it would feel to be stretched by such a formidable object.

“How about we go back to my place?” Deadpool murmured against his mouth, and Peter jerked back in alarm. He glanced down at the bathroom floor and Deadpool laughed.

“Not quite that far down, honey – just somewhere in between.”

Removing one of his hands from Peter’s butt, he clicked his fingers sharply, plunging the room into red-tinged darkness. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Peter noticed a large bed with blood-red sheets, built into the middle of the empty space. The posts were made from black tree trunks, growing straight out of the dark wood floor, and an array of red candles stood dripping wax across the floor. The sheets were cool and silken against his exposed skin as Deadpool laid him down on them, and he made no protest when the demon began to hastily remove the offending clothing that was shielding the rest of his body.

“Fucking beautiful,” Deadpool growled, bearing down on Peter to take the tip of his cock between his lips. Peter moaned and leaned his head so far back his shoulder blades pushed up from the bed. That torturous pleasure he’d experienced came flooding back to him, filling his body with fire. He gasped and whimpered when Deadpool pulled away, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips.

“My turn, baby boy,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

Stumbling in his eagerness to please his dark lord, Peter threw himself onto his stomach and wrapped his lips around Deadpool’s girthy cock. He’d never done anything like it before, but he knew the theory from secret internet searches when his aunt had gone to sleep. His lips stretched almost to the point of splitting as he took him in, his mouth filling with the musky taste of Deadpool’s pre-come. He was barely sucking more than the tip, but Deadpool moaned appreciatively just the same, one hand woven in Peter’s hair, keeping him in place as he thrust shallowly into the boy’s throat. Peter coughed and choked until the demon finally withdrew, strings of spit hanging from his lower lip. He wanted to crawl up that magnificent body, attach himself like an extra limb and impale himself on that mighty cock, but Deadpool had other ideas.

With another snap of his fingers, black silk ropes appeared from nowhere, tethering Peter’s wrists and ankles to the bed-frame. He lay face down, unable to move, as Deadpool walked slowly around the bed, his smooth fingers appreciating every dip and curve in Peter’s body. Peter tried to keep his eyes on him, but as his neck wouldn’t stretch far enough once he reached the headboard.

“Hmm . . .” Deadpool seemed to be considering something. “Need to tenderise this gorgeous meat before I take a bite.”

Peter could feel something trailing down his leg towards his ass. He thought it might be leather, but his senses were so jumbled and dazed that it could have been anything. His voice trilled like a startled bird when the first blow came, striking across his ass cheek another three times before moving to the other side. The tip of the paddle poked between his cheeks, parting them, and he blushed at how exposed he was. He didn’t think he’d been this naked in front of anyone since he stopped needed his mom or Aunt May to bathe him. _Do NOT think of Aunt May right now_, his subconscious mentally slapped him.

He felt Deadpool’s hands running over the smooth skin of his back, the tips of his sharp fingernails – claws? Talons? – tracing maps of admiration.

“Perfect . . .” the demon purred, framing Peter’s hips with his palms, his thumbs almost meeting in the middle of the boy’s lower back. He couldn’t recall ever having seen a body so pure and exquisite, not even when he was human. Peter’s skin was white as fresh cream and soft as baby flesh, his ass cheeks pert and round as two small globes. On an impulse, Deadpool parted them with his hands and dipped his head to probe at that virginal hole with his long tongue. Peter gasped and squirmed, and Deadpool pushed harder, his tongue breaching the barrier and tasting the soft flesh within. Peter moaned and writhed as much as his bonds would allow. He wasn’t sure if he liked the sensation of Deadpool’s tongue snaking up inside him, much further than should have been humanly possible (though entirely _demonically_ possible), but he was far beyond asking him to stop. The weight on the mattress shifted and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deadpool’s arm reach down and pick up one of the candles, the dripping wax slowly forming a thick collar around the base of the stem.

Deadpool suspended the candle over the flawless skin of Peter’s back, tipping the wick far enough for the smallest drop of wax to fall. The boy hissed and Deadpool shushed him, depositing a large drop next to the first. Peter’s whole body was trembling, his breath shallow, but Deadpool could still taste his desire, sweet in the air. He peeled away the wax coins, satisfied by the blush of the skin beneath. He wanted to mark the boy in every way he could before releasing him back to the mortal realm. With this thought in mind, he threw the candle aside, extinguishing the flame and lowered himself onto the bed, the weight of his body spread across Peter’s back. 

The obsidian cock was perilously close to its target. Deadpool’s fingers toyed at Peter’s hole, and he felt something deliciously cool left in their wake. It seemed even Hell had lube for the right circumstances.

Deadpool’s tongue explored the damp skin at Peter’s temple, relishing the salty tang of the boy’s sweat. Another finger-snap, and the ropes holding his wrists retreated, his ankles remaining bound to the posts, preventing any chance of closing his legs. Deadpool threaded his fingers through the gaps between Peter’s, the thick black digits dwarfing the boy’s slim pale ones. They were yin and yang – Peter the vibrant spirit of life, Deadpool the damned soul. It was unthinkable, two worlds that should never meet in this way, and Deadpool was dying of starvation for it.

Peter knew it was coming, could feel Deadpool’s desperation like heat against his body, yet the initial intrusion was still beyond anything he could have imagined. His virgin hole stretched and protested, yet somehow didn’t tear. More demonic magic? The sensation of being so completely _filled_ was more incredible than any of his fantasies had prepared him for. He whimpered, his mind and body overwhelmed. By the time Deadpool bottomed out, Peter swore he could feel the tip pressing into his stomach, bulging against the bed. The demon pulled out and pushed in again faster than he could adjust, and he cried out in pain and surprise. Deadpool placed two fingers inside his mouth for Peter to bite down on and thrust again, harder.

Peter whimpered around the fingers gagging him, his voice cutting suddenly short as Deadpool’s teeth made their mark on the nape of his neck. He felt like a deer trapped in the clutches of a wolf, though were he to be released he knew he would run straight back to the beast’s claws.

“Oh . . . _fuck_ . . .” he gasped. Every rut hit some magic place deep inside him, sending sharp waves of pleasure cascading through his veins. The harder and faster Deadpool moved, the higher the waves rose, each competing with the last for the chance to fall.

“You’re mine,” Deadpool growled in his ear, those razor teeth nipping at his lobe, drawing blood. “Say it.”

“I-I . . . oh _God_, Deadpool—”

Deadpool jerked his hips harder, his hips smacking solidly into Peter’s ass. “There’re no Gods here, baby boy. Say my real name.”

“W-Wade!” Peter sobbed. A ball of fire was growing inside his chest, heating his body like a solar flare. “Wade . . . I’m yours, please, I want to . . . please let me . . .”

“Let you what?” Peter could feel the bestial smirk against his neck.

“Let me . . . oh_ fuck_, please . . . let me come!”

Deadpool rose, his hands keeping Peter’s shoulders firmly in place, pressed against the mattress so he couldn’t have moved even if he tried. The taut muscle stretched around his cock was nothing short of ecstasy – unlike anything he’d encountered in the mortal realm or that of the damned. He watched his thick cock diving in and out of that heavenly hole, impaling the boy like a sword sheathed in its scabbard. Surely nothing could ever be so perfect; God himself had surely never felt such bliss as he – such a cursed and foul creature – was being rewarded with. Rewarded for what? For tempting and deflowering one of the Father’s holiest and most beautiful creations. And so the wicked shall inherit the Earth.

He sent a thrum of his own demonic magic into Peter’s body – just a drop, the boy could not handle much more – and bathed in the music that came from his mouth. To hear his true name sung with such desire, such devotion, gave him joy as he had not thought to feel this side of the Day of Judgement. He shot his seed into the boy’s body in thick, gelatinous ropes, inscribing his soul with a seal that would enable him to find him again – and again, and again, throughout all of time. Whether God or Lucifer allowed it, this boy was his, and his alone. No other man would touch him. He would permit the gentle touch of woman – he was not unreasonable.

The boy’s hole was loose and gaping as he withdrew from him, rivers of come streaming down his thighs and pooling on the sheets. Peter was almost catatonic with pleasure, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Releasing his legs from the bonds, Deadpool rubbed a palm-full of his spit onto the boy’s hole, restoring it to size. There was only so much natural healing the human body could manage on its own – in times like these, a helping hand was needed.

Cradling the boy’s limp body to his chest, Deadpool kissed him slowly. He would sleep now – such a powerful sealing spell took its toll – and then he would return him to the mortal world. Deadpool would watch him when he could, keep him safe; he took care of his toys, after all.

Some time later, Peter awoke on the floor of Flash’s bathroom. Deadpool was gone, as was the circlet of teeth marks he had bestowed upon Peter’s neck. His entire body felt lighter, as though all unnecessary weight and troubles had been filtered from it. He stared at his hands, unable to shake the feeling that he was . . . different, somehow. Something deep and fundamental in his makeup had been altered, like he was connected to something – something far greater than he could comprehend.

Gingerly, he picked himself up off the tiles and shuffled back to the den. Ned was still fast asleep on the couch, his gentle snores filling the room. Peter glanced at the flashing dial of his watch – three thirty-two AM. Two minutes had passed, and yet Peter felt as though everything in his life was different.

He slid back inside his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, Deadpool’s eyes glowing like two ruby stars in his mind. He smiled to himself and searched for sleep again, focusing on his heart’s gentle beat. It was steady, calm, as though it knew something was different.

It knew to whom it belonged. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me so much inspiration to write more, so please leave any thoughts (critique included - I'm always looking to improve!) you might have! I'll love you forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and a comment in you liked it? I'm sure every writer on here would agree that comments do SO much for inspiration, so it would mean a tremendous amount if you left even just a small one :) 
> 
> Chapter Two will be up either tomorrow or Thursday. Have a spooky week!


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